


With My Sincerest Apologies, Here's a Bucket of Guts

by kayliemalinza



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Crack, Gen, Icky, Mild Gore, Temporary Character Death - Jack Harkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-08
Updated: 2008-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:58:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto kills Jack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With My Sincerest Apologies, Here's a Bucket of Guts

To be fair, Ianto did apologize for killing Jack.

To be honest, he didn't apologize _to_ Jack.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," he said, squeezing Gwen's shoulder and canting his head to look at her with his extremely sincere grey eyes. The extent of the sincerity was pretty amazing, actually; if there were a world-wide contest for being sincere, Ianto's eyes would win.

Not his mouth, so much. It kept smirking.

"You—You—" Gwen's eyes were winning contests for being wide (narrowly beating out the Spruce Goose and the Doctor's ego) and her mouth kept stammering on, so Ianto (sincerely!) lead her away to a quiet room to calm down. He made her some soothing tea in a pale pink cup, brought her a fuzzy pillow, and set up a YouTube playlist of puppies. It worked a treat and Gwen calmed down rather fast, but she stayed in the room for quite a while anyway, just in case she suffered a relapse. And because Ianto—albeit sincere—was scary.

Ianto also apologized to his shirt-sleeve, because a bit of blood had spotted the crisply-ironed crease of it, just above the elbow. "I'm so sorry," he said, stroking it with the smooth edge of his fingernail. "I never meant for this to happen." Really, he had thought the apron and dish-gloves enough to protect his clothing, but apparently Jack's blood was as ingenious and determined as the man it spurted from. Ianto would have apologized to Jack's shirt, seeing as it was soaked through and tattered, but Ianto had recently found the receipt for a discount men's clothing store in one of Jack's pockets, and any oxford that was on sale for seven quid fifty couldn't possibly expect any sort of respect. The shock of being properly addressed might be enough to send it into wrinkles, and then where would they be?

The coat, of course, had been lovingly removed ages ago. It stretched luxuriously on the coat hook in Jack's office, unaware of the carnage splattering aisle 42d of the archives. Aisle 42d wished it could be so unaware, but then again it had heard tales of a fatal jellyfish orgy in aisle 12t some years back so it supposed it should consider itself lucky. It was rather put-out at Ianto, however. Couldn't he have done this in the vaults? The autopsy bay? Or possibly aisle 42f, which never stayed organised and, frankly, smelled like a cheese toasty gone slightly off. Aisle 42d smelled like _gardenias_.

Aisle 42d was waiting for an apology, to be quite perfectly honest. Ianto could clean up the coagulating carnage _after_.

Ianto had just about mopped up the blood pooling beneath the body when Jack started, gasped, then flopped around like a mildly retarded fish, or perhaps an epilleptic tadpole. Ianto leaned on the mop handle and waited patiently for Jack to finish.

"Alright there, Jack?" he asked considerately.

"I _died_!" Jack cried.

"Happens rather a lot," said Ianto.

"You _killed_ me!" Jack yelled.

"That happens less often," Ianto replied.

Jack blinked at him helplessly, his upper lip curling in some odd amalgamation of distaste and bemusement. "You—" he paused, swallowed, slowly levered himself up on his elbows to look at his bloody, torn-up shirt and the (flawlessly toned) uninjured belly beneath it. "How did you know it would work?" he asked.

"I wasn't sure," said Ianto. "I thought it would be best if you were dead for quite some time, hence the, er...." He nodded toward the slop bucket some feet away, a length of intestine draping artfully over the side.

Jack's expression was pretty priceless. "Well, that's one way to lose weight," he said.

Ianto barked a short laugh and dropped his head, scraping a fingernail on the top of the mop handle. "Jack," he said hesitantly. "I looked back through the CCTV footage when I started to suspect what had happened. At first I thought I was imagining the change, but really I hadn't looked back far enough." He looked up at Jack, his eyes in full Sincerity Mode again, awash in the sincerest shade of grey, and sporting a sincere tearful glimmer. There was a hint of regret, like a shameful boutonnière. "You were possessed weeks ago, Jack, and neither of us noticed. I'm sorry."

Jack sighed. He stared around the aisle for a bit, then peeled himself (literally) up from the floor. "We really do need more help around here," he murmured. He poked reflectively at the tatters of his shirt, then spoke up again. "Tell you what," he said. "Get me out of these clothes, wash all this out—" he wiggled his fingers in the clotted mess of his hair— "and make me a sandwich, and then I'll forgive you." He cocked his head at Ianto and smiled. "Think you can manage that?"

"With pleasure," said Ianto, and reached into his pocket to offer Jack a hanky.


End file.
